One More Dead
by Tyranosaur
Summary: Grant's never been this terrified, this overwhelmed, or this unprepared. He's also never had this much fun. This is one man's struggle to survive in an undead world. Rated M for gore, language, and adult themes.  Please review!
1. Chapter 1: It Hits the Fan

Grant was woken by the familiar sound of his alarm. Mechanically and without thought he rolled out of bed, rummaging in the still-dark room for the cleanest pair of pants he could find. Coming up with a pair between "dirty" and "shameful", he checked his cell phone for any messages he might have missed in the night.

"Wait a second..." he mumbled to no one in particular. "It's Tuesday? God _dammit._"

He slouched back onto the bed, feeling irritated. He didn't have class on Tuesday and Thursday, but he forgot to turn his alarm off. Again. He knew that meant he would spend the next hour eating cereal and watching re-runs while he waited for his friends to wake up.

"Because _they _are smart enough to not wake up at seven a.m. on their days off." he said bitterly. With a sigh, he ambled downstairs into the spacious kitchen. His father had bought the house shortly before he re-married, and was now living with his new wife half the state away. Grant was allowed to without paying for rent or utilities as long as he went to the nearby college, which he thought was a pretty sweet deal. A thirty-five hundred square feet home, fully furnished, and all he had to do was take a few classes? It was the easiest decision he ever made. Living on scholarships on the outskirts of a small Arkansan town was the best thing to happen to him, as far as he was concerned. Looking out the kitchen window, he could clearly see the one downside of living in his father's isolated house. There were farm animals on both sides of the property. He learned that it was remarkably difficult to sleep when cows on one side of his house got into a bellowing contest with the donkeys on the other. They were mercifully silent last night though.

___Wish I could have enjoyed that a little longer __he thought,_ mentally kicking himself once again.

He suddenly stopped his rummaging through cabinets. Come to think of it, _everything_ seemed strangely quiet this morning. No sounds of animals, no morning commuters on the highway, no farmers in the field with tractors or four-wheelers checking on the herds. After a few moments silence, he could faintly hear a horn blaring a few miles down the road.

___That's more like it._

He continued foraging until he had his habitual bowl of off-brand cereal and shuffled into the living room. Turning on his television, he forgot about the eerie silence of the morning. After more than an hour of bad TV and worse cereal, Grant decided to see if any of his friends were awake. Picking up his empty bowl and standing up, he glanced outside. Two unthinking eyes were staring back.

Grant was not a small man. He was around six feet, four inches tall with the lean frame of someone who exercises in some vain hope of living forever. That morning was the first time in a long while that he could remember being startled. Slowly, he put down the bowl and walked to his front door. The thing was still standing in his lawn, watching him. Cautiously, he opened the door and stood on his front porch. Taking a deep breath, he looked to the farmhouses to his left and right. He saw nobody. While he stood, thinking about what he was going to do, the creature moved. It took one tentative step closer, and let out a low groan. It still stared with dull eyes.

Finally, Grant had enough.

He looked to the closest farmhouse, took a deep breath and bellowed "Whose fucking cow is this, and why is it interrupting my god damned breakfast? On MY lawn!"

The only thing he could hear was the sound of wind moving through the trees behind his home, and the soft rustling of the grass as the cow moved closer to him. Grant stared at the beast before giving out a sigh.

"Come on, let's try to get you home. I don't want to get shot by some redneck for 'cow thievin'." He made comforting noises and was able to get the cow to follow him at a small distance. One of his neighbors had a history of leaving his pasture gate open, so Grant decided to start there. He followed the barbed-wire fence that bordered his property, stopping every now and again to coax the cow along. After a few minutes of walking, he noticed that his neighbors gate was indeed open. Briefly glad that he chose the right neighbor, he continued on his way towards the home. The gate itself was just to the right of the farmer's house, which Grant noticed had darkened windows. Peering inside, he could barely make out the furniture in the gloom. To his left he noticed that both of the farmer's trucks were missing from the driveway.

"That's kinda strange. Where did your owners get off to this early, leaving you all alone?" he said to the cow. He received a blank stare and a low grunt. With a shrug, he moved closer to the gate before he realized the cow had stopped following him. He turned and glared at the animal.

"What's the matter? You live here don't you? You give me any trouble over the last ten feet and I _will_ leave you to wander off. You wouldn't last..." Grant was interrupted by the sound of far-off footsteps. Pacing quickly to the side of the house, he saw his neighbor walking towards him from a barn about hundred feet into the expansive pasture. He seemed to stumble along, as though he had hurt his leg. He was dressed in his usual flannel shirt and overalls, with thick work gloves hiding his hands. Grant waited to see if the man had noticed him, but the farmer gave no indication that he had seen the young man. His head was down, mostly concealed by a wide-brimmed straw hat. Grant watched his slow pace for a moment, then called out to the man.

"Sir? Sir, I think you might be a cow short. Found this one in my yard..."

The old farmer said nothing, but continued his lumbering walk. After a moment, he lifted his head. Grant took a sharp breath, eyes widening at what he saw. The older man was missing his lower lip, his white beard stained red and black around his mouth. His eyes were sunken and dirty gray, his veins tinted blue. The man's mouth opened, letting out a hiss that lowered into a moan. At the sound Grant felt like electricity was running up his spine, the blood in his veins freezing. The cow behind him bolted as soon as it heard the farmer, kicking up dirt and gravel as it fled as fast as its round body would allow. Grant stood, frozen, as the thing got closer to him. His heart was racing but he couldn't think, couldn't react. He finally felt himself moving forward, closing the gate. He had no idea why he was doing it, except that he felt he should. He backed away after it locked into place. He moved away slowly at first, then faster as he moved towards his own home. By the time he reached his front door, he was at a dead sprint. He practically vaulted inside his home before spinning and locking the deadbolt. He sat down to try to stop his heart from racing, to catch his breath from the mad dash home.

After a couple of minutes of heavy breathing, he walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water into his face. When he looked into the mirror to try and collect his thoughts, what he saw scared him almost as much as the monster his neighbor had become.

He was smiling.


	2. Chapter 2: First Steps

There was only the sound of running water as Grant appraised himself in the mirror. He had a wide, manic grin that he couldn't force himself to abandon. His bright blue eyes were practically glowing with excitement, and his dark brown hair was still wild and unruly from the run inside. There was an apparently diseased _something _outside stalking towards his home, and Grant was using all of his self control to keep from laughing.

_'Dear God I've gone insane', _he thought to himself. He noticed that his smile grew even wider at the idea. He decided not to think about that. He began to mutter nervously to himself.

"First things first, I need a gun...wait, dad took those and I'm a terrible shot anyway. I'm pretty sure that leaves me three kinds of fucked. Wait a second, I have an entire garage full of options! Strange I didn't think of that till now. Hahaa!" He noted with a hint of worry that even his _voice _had taken a disturbing tone. He ran from the bathroom with the kind of barely-contained joy of a child running to open Christmas presents. He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard his living room window shattering. Grant could hear a raspy moaning over the sound of crunching glass. His smile evaporating by the second, he crept down the remainder of the hallway. Knowing that the creature was coming towards him, Grant crouched and pressed his back to one side of the door frame. He waited, the seconds seeming to stretch on for hours as he heard the farmers footsteps approach. He had an idea. A potentially suicidal idea, but he wasn't spoiled for choice at the moment.

_'I **really** hope this works...'_

Finally, the farmer's leg appeared through the doorway to the hall. Grant's hand shot forward, catching the monster by the heel of its boot and yanking upwards as hard as he could. The awkward creature fell backwards heavily, rattling pictures on the nearby walls. Taking his chance, Grant's long legs propelled him over the prone figure and a few quick steps led to his front door. His shaking hands set to working the deadbolt, the simple task made harder by the farmer's incessant moaning. Finally, the deadbolt gave way and Grant threw open the door. He went to take his first step outside before he noticed his leg refused to move. He looked down, confused. He saw that as soon as the undead man had hit the ground it had started crawling after him, not stunned by its fall for even a moment.

The monster was holding him by the ankle, pulling itself towards Grant. Its hat had been knocked off when it entered through the window, revealing a scalp that had been partially peeled away by jagged glass. Its eyes were locked on Grant's leg, teeth gnashing as it struggled to pull its bulk across the floor.

Grant took in the situation in an adrenaline fulled second. He noted the sickly pallor of the man that used to be his neighbor, the blood still dripping from the gaping hole in his face where his lower lip used to be. The terrifying strength in the dead man's hands. Grant could feel his skin being rubbed raw through the rough denim of his jeans. He took a deep breath and did the only thing he could think of.

He panicked.

"Oh shit fuck no! Get off get off GET OFF!" he yelled while using his free leg to kick at the thing's head. He heard deep, terrifying laughter. He would later realize it was coming from him. Blow after blow crushed the thing's nose with a sickening crunch, knocked out its teeth in a spray of blood and bile, but refused to let go of Grant's leg. He quickly lifted his foot again and threw all of his weight behind it, planting his shoe solidly in the farmer's neck. A disgusting wet crack filled the room, instantly followed by the rotting thing going still. Grant slumped to the floor, his heart trying to beat itself to death for the second time in thirty minutes.

He sat and just enjoyed being so _alive_, trying to remember the last time he had been this frantically charged by _anything._ The last time he had actually felt the driving need to do something other than the mundane, day-to-day things that was expected of him. He couldn't remember a time when everything had been this thrilling, this new and important. Sure, he could have died at any moment. But that's what made it _fun_.

_'There is no place I'd rather be than right in the middle of this,'_ He thought to himself. The soft wind outside carried a series of moans, interrupting his musings. Every nerve in his body suddenly felt supercharged, every fiber of his being trying to isolate that sound. Grant took a quick look outside. Sure enough, three more creatures were shambling down his driveway, maybe fifty feet away. Standing up, he quickly ran to his garage. It had been built after the house was finished sixty years ago, and was originally one of the dozens of small barns that littered the countryside in this part of town. After his family bought the property, they decided to use it as more of a storage building. These days it was filled with tools and items Grant's father had collected over thirty years of military service.

Walking quickly to the building, he unlocked and threw open the large swinging doors, letting in the morning light. Directly in front of him was what he came out here for, what he killed his neighbor for. Laying across two nails that had been driven into the barn's walls about three feet apart, was his father's kaiser blade. It was a landscaping tool with a three foot long oaken handle, topped with a foot long steel blade that curved at the very end. Grant figured this tool would give him more reach than anything else he had lying around.

Grant lifted it, and held it in his hands. Every summer since he was twelve he would take this tool and clear land on the old family farm. Ten years later his hands were calloused and strong, and he knew that his arms could swing the blade for hours without stopping. Running his thumb along the blade, he noticed that it could use a sharpening. Behind him, the sounds of the three creatures were growing dangerously close.

_This will have to do for now, _he decided. Smirking, he quickly walked outside. One of the shambling horrors was a dozen feet ahead of the others. Grant eyed it for a moment before pulling his blade back as though it were a baseball bat. He knew their hands were faster than he had expected from rotting corpses, but he had to hope that he was faster. If not, he would die twenty feet outside his front door. He steadied himself and locked eyes on the closest walking rot box. It was a young woman, maybe fifteen years old, missing most of her left hand. She was dressed in blood-stained nightclothes, plodding towards Grant. Moving with surprising speed for someone of his size, he took three quick steps forward and swung the tool as hard as he could. The blade bit into the girl's neck, passing cleanly through. The two separated pieces of the girl fell to the ground. There was no spray of blood as Grant was expecting, just a steady seeping of dark goo. The ease of cutting through the bone surprised him.

The second fell just as easily, Grant feeling a strange urgency. He had business with the one in back, and couldn't spare any time fooling around. He looked at the last one with a measure of pity.

"If there is _any_ part of you that can feel what I'm about to do, I'm sorry. But I need to know what I'm up against here, and I don't think I wanna be learning this crap on the fly."

Quickly backing away from the only creature still standing, he looked the thing over with a critical eye. Its right arm had been torn away, the stump seeping the same dark goo that the other ones did. Steeling himself for what he had to do, Grant moved the blade of his weapon to his right. He ran to the ghoul's injured side before approaching. Taking advantage of its weakness, Grant threw the blade across the creatures stomach. Putrid guts spilled onto his driveway, splashing his shoes with rank ichor.

Grant's left hand flew to his mouth to hold in his breakfast while he backpedaled from the mess. His opponent seemed completely unfazed by its gruesome wounds, simply walking through its dangling intestines.

"Well..." Grant started "That's one question down. You're a tough bunch, aren't you?"

Grant eventually lopped off its remaining arm, both legs, and finally its head in his search for how much abuse the monsters could take. By the time he was done it was fast approaching noon. With a final word of apology to the mangled corpses he had left, he began to gather what he would need for the road ahead. Spare clothes, his leather jacket (even thought it was early spring), bottles of water and more than a dozen MRE's were split between his school backpack and an old duffel bag. Once he finished collecting supplies, he walked outside and set his keys on top of his car. It had been a graduation present from his father four years ago, but Grant had decided to travel on foot. Those rotting things seemed drawn to noise, and an engine would probably draw a crowd. On the driver's seat he left a note:

"_I won't be needing this anymore, so whoever you are, feel free to take the old girl. She's in pretty good shape, but the transmission could use a little work. Good luck. You'll need it._"

As Grant walked away from the only home that had ever been his, he refused to look back. If he did, he might decide to stay. He couldn't afford that.

He had work to do in town.


	3. Chapter 3: Meanwhile

Sarah had a good life. Loving parents waiting at home for her after class, old friends at the small town college, and a dependable car that let her visit both as often as she could. Her grades were excellent, and she had finished her first two semesters with a grade point average of 3.7 or higher. She was well on her way to a bright future as a psychiatrist, having a knack for reading people and helping troubled individuals. She even volunteered hours of her free time each week to student counseling, helping new students adjust to being away from home and making friends in the potentially overwhelming college life.

Not everything was sunshine and rainbows. Not since her boyfriend left her a month ago. They had dated in high school for more than a year. They both had gone to different universities after graduation, her ex deciding that he's had enough of the small town life. He had left her for a sorority girl, breaking up with Sarah via drunken text message. She had reacted by throwing herself into her studying and counseling, or hanging out with her friends. She knew she was avoiding dealing with her feelings; she _was _studying that sort of thing, after all.

Every one of these things in her life lost all importance when the dead started to rise.

Her morning had gone to hell faster than she could have imagined. One moment she was sitting in the university's break room, planning a surprise birthday party for her best friend Alice. Twenty minutes later, three of her friends had been killed running to their cars. One had been shot by a man that proceeded to take his sedan, and two had been torn apart by the dead.

She and Alice had been separated in the initial mayhem of students pouring out of buildings, screams, gunshots, and attacking ghouls. Sarah's car was in a far-off lot, so she was following Mark. Mark was a friend of hers, a true southern gentleman. He had a thick accent that made people immediately think 'hillbilly', and was rarely without his flannel jacket that covered his bulky frame. He always had at least one gun in his trusty old pickup truck, insisting that they were for security at school and for hunting afterward. For once, Sarah was glad that she lived in rural Arkansas. She thought to herself, "Arkansas: Where everyone has guns and knows how to use 'em". She laughed to herself, and immediately felt guilty. The world was falling apart around her and she was thinking ridiculous garbage.

She and Mark were fast approaching his truck, simply running around their attackers. Mark was fumbling with his keys, rapidly pressing the "unlock" button. One ghoul stood in front of the driver's-side door, arms extended and mouth open. Mark threw a hay-maker punch, knocking teeth and rotting blood from the monster's mouth. He quickly stepped over the fallen creature's legs and into his truck. Sarah had already run around the vehicle and strapped herself in. Mark quickly backed up, his rear bumper hitting one decaying woman in the stomach. He checked the rear-view mirror and saw two young men running towards his truck. Both were shouting for him to wait, sprinting towards the only salvation they could see. Mark hit his brakes, tapping his steering wheel impatiently as he watched the young men approach. Sarah's head darted around, trying to spot any imminent danger. The two running men jumped into the back of the truck, shouting "thank you" repeatedly. Mark began to drive forward, trying to think of a way out of the dead-filled parking lot while one hand fished under his seat for his trusty .45 pistol. Finding it, he put it on the seat between himself and Sarah. A minute was spent driving around, and sometimes over, the dead pursuers. They finally found a side road that would take them away from the school and, eventually, away from town. Mark spoke for the first time since their mad dash from the break room.

"Sarah, I want you to take this gun '. When we stop, Im'ma use the shotgun I got behind the seats. Only use it if one'a those things gets _real _close, alright darlin'?"

Sarah found that she couldn't speak. Numbly, she nodded her head. She lifted the gun. It was heavier than she would have thought, the dark gray metal glinting in the morning light. Mark noted her silence with worry. Sarah was always the most cheerful of their group, and he loved her like a little sister. He was two years older than her, and had always been protective of the petite young lady. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

"Now that thing has a helluva kick so support your firing hand and never, _ever_ fire it one handed. If you do, it'll break your wrist. Especially a little one like yours." he said with a forced smile.

Sarah only nodded again. The two young men in the back were ecstatic at getting a ride. One moved to the front of the truck bed and said through the back window, "God bless you man, I thought we were good and fucked. I'm Daryl and that ugly bastard is Tom. We had to fight our way through the dorms, through the main offices, and then through the damned parking lot with a bat and a hunting knife. If you hadn't..." He was interrupted by an odd noise. A series of thumps and dry scrapings could be faintly heard over the sound of the wind and the engine. Daryl stopped and looked around. No one else seemed to hear it. He turned to Tom to ask if he noticed anything and suddenly froze. A face appeared over Tom's shoulder, one skeletal arm on the tailgate and the other gripping Tom's shoulder. Before either boy could react, teeth sunk into the back of Tom's neck. He began screaming, reaching behind him to try and tear the creature away.

Daryl quickly stepped to the back of the truck, and tried to ram his knife into the monster's rotting temple. Tom, in his panic, stood up almost simultaneously. Daryl's knife stuck solidly between decaying ribs, which did nothing to stop the assault.

"Hold fucking still, god dammit!" Daryl began to pull away his knife, but the truck swerved to dodge two wrecked cars. Tom, hunting knife, and undead monster all fell from the back of the truck in a split second. Daryl, wide eyed with surprise, watched all three rolling on the road as the truck increased in speed. He sat down heavily, carefully making his way towards the front of the truck. Without a single word about the fallen boy, he pressed his back to the front of the truck, giving him a view of every side of the bed. He held Tom's bat close, glad that it hadn't gone overboard too. He hadn't really known Tom that well. They had shared a dorm room, but were never really close. It shocked Daryl that rather than feeling dismayed at Tom's death, he was just glad it wasn't him.

The group drove on in silence. Each of them was trying to come to terms with what was happening around them. None of them had a plan, or even an idea to work with. Daryl rubbed his aching legs and could feel blisters forming on his feet from running the earlier horrifying gauntlet that the school had become. Sarah was shaking uncontrollably, thinking about her dead friends and hoping against all reason that her parents and Alice were alright. Mark winced and looked at his split knuckles, wiping some of the foul-smelling blood onto his jeans. His whole hand ached, especially the joints. He flexed it a few times and tried to put the pain out of his mind. After a few minutes, Sarah finally regained her voice..

"...fucking _zombies_? I get talked down to by politicians for the last decade about the dangers of terrorism and what gets us is motherfucking zombies? Romero was some kind of prophet. He tried to warn us but noooo, we decided his movies were about _capitalism_ and _the_ _human_ _condition_. I bet every time he read an analysis of his films he just stood screaming 'No! It's about zombies! That's the theme! That's the message you elitist ass-wipes! Watch out for the fucking undead!' Jesus on a fucking pogo-stick..."

Sarah glared out the window, breathless from her rant. When she turned her head, both Tom and Daryl were staring at her with frightened eyes. Tom let out a short laugh. Daryl began to giggle. Then all three began to laugh for the first time in more than an hour. They remained in slightly higher spirits for the rest of the ride.

'The rest of the ride' turned out to only be a few minutes. They had made it out of the small town of Beebe easily enough, the rugged truck making it either around or through any obstacles they faced. The ride ended when a car sped out of a gravel road to their left, hitting the driver's side of the truck. Mark hadn't been strapped in. He slammed into his door before flying across Sarah, who had fared somewhat better. Daryl, who had decided to lay down during the long ride, crashed into one wall of the truck bed before crumpling into a heap. Sarah raised her head slowly, the wind knocked out of her from the impact. Mark was groaning weakly, bleeding from a dozen cuts from having his head smash through the safety glass of his window. In the back of the truck, Daryl was bleeding heavily. Sarah saw with horror that splintered bone jutted from his arm, and that his face had dented the metal siding of the truck bed. The young man's nose was flattened, and several of his front teeth were scattered around the truck. She pushed Mark's bulk off of her lap, then unbuckled herself. She picked up the .45 from the floor, and began to search for extra rounds. She took a half-empty box from the glove compartment, then tried to drag Mark from the vehicle. Her 98 pounds barely moved Mark across the seats, let alone away from the accident. She heard moans approaching from behind her, from the trees beside the road. She began to cry, tugging fruitlessly at Mark.

"Mark, Mark you have to get up, I can't carry you. Oh God please Mark, they're coming, we can't stay here..." she whispered to the unconscious man. Turning around, she saw the first zombie crawling up the ditch, a scant six feet from the road. Tears falling from her face, she stepped back and closed the door. She ran to the other side of the street, away from the sounds of undead. She began to yell while she jogged away from the injured men.

"Hey you rotting assholes! Over here! Free food going this way!" Then, in a softer voice, "Mark, I am so sorry. I'm so, so sorry for this." She kept yelling at the zombies, leading them away from the truck. When she was certain they were following her instead of poking through the wreckage, she began to run through the woods. She didn't have a destination in mind, but had a pretty good idea of where she was headed at first. When she got tired she would sit down against a tree, but every time she did the dead caught up to her. This stop-and-go went on for most of the day, making her legs burn and her lungs ache. By the end of it, she knew she was going to die. The distance she could run after each rest was growing drastically shorter and the dead never stopped coming.

She finally decided she would run until she collapsed, and if the dead were still following her, she would kill as many as possible. She would save the last bullet for herself. She ran through bushes, jumped over twisted roots, and splashed through muddy creeks. The dead followed her every step of the way. She shot a glance behind her as she ran, to see what kind of distance she had put behind between her attackers and herself, when she slammed into something. Looking up slowly, she saw that she had run full on into a tall, irritated looking man. He held a duffel bag in one hand, and a gore-flecked kaiser blade in the other. Cold blue eyes appraised her. Sarah found it difficult to look directly into them. The man suddenly laughed a bit, dropping his bag so he could extend a hand. The man's deep, quiet voice surprised Sarah.

"You look like you could use some help."


	4. Chapter 4: A Chance Meeting

The two stared at each other for a few seconds. Sarah could hardly believe the change in the man's expression. When she first looked into his face she was immediately certain that his piercing eyes would be the last thing she saw before that blade bit into her flesh. It took less than a second for his face to change to a shy grin, accompanied by a warm voice that asked if she needed help. She instantly knew two things: he was fairly attractive, and very frightening. She was nervous, only resisting the urge to shout because she still had Mark's .45 in her hands. She quickly pointed it at the man.

Grant's grin widened into a smile, then a surprised laugh escaped from him. When he had first felt the impact of the small woman running into him, he wasn't sure what had happened. He only knew that he was somewhat annoyed. Then he realized he had been hit by a tiny red-haired girl, and his irritation had melted away. She was obviously terrified, somewhat bloody, and incredibly dirty. Dried mud covered her jeans and her shoes, and her face had maybe a half dozen cuts which he could see had only recently stopped bleeding. Her bright green eyes were wide with surprise, her lips pressed tightly together, and her button nose was covered in freckles. Grant decided to break the tension.

"I'm sorry, there must be a misunderstanding. I asked 'Do you need help', not 'Could you please do something about my horrible oxygen addiction?' I can understand the confusion, the two sound really similar."

Sarah said nothing at first, continuing to point the large handgun at the smiling man. Eventually she worked up the nerve to say "I'm not taking the gun off of you until I'm convinced you aren't dangerous."

Grant let out and exasperated sigh. He slowly lowered his weapon before dropping it to the ground. Then he slowly got on his knees in front of the prone woman. He looked at her for a moment. Then, faster than she would have thought possible, his hand shot out and grabbed her gun. She tried to pull the trigger, but it wouldn't budge. With mounting horror, she realized that the safety was on.

"_Of course it is_", she thought "_Mark wouldn't have left it in his car otherwise_."

Grant's other hand grabbed her wrist, and began to pull her forward. She kicked at the ground to get away, but he was just too strong. She closed her eyes as she slid forward and waited for him to tear the gun away from her, all the while imagining what horrible things lay in store for her at his hands. Suddenly, he stopped pulling and Sarah heard a small click. She opened her eyes.

The .45 was pressed to Grant's forehead, and his thumb had flipped the tiny switch that controlled the safety. Sarah looked at him in confusion, and their eyes met. His sky blue eyes seemed much like they did a moment ago, looking through her with terrifying coldness. This time, however, they also seemed just a little bit sad.

"I _am _dangerous. You could tell that from the second you looked at me. But I swear by all that's holy I don't pose any threat to you. I'm not out here hunting for scared women. If you don't believe me, pull the trigger and put all your fears to rest." He said with a small, tired smile.

Sarah was taken aback. This was insane. _He_ was insane. But she found herself believing what he had told her. Even if he was lying, she could always shoot him later if he _did_ prove dangerous. The fact that she even thought of that made her ashamed of herself. She gave him another hard look before lowering the gun. Grant's face reclaimed his original grin and sunny look. He stood up and helped Sarah to her feet before grabbing his kaiser blade. Several awkward moments passed.

"So...are you hungry? I've got some cans of chili, green beans, and pineapple in the duffel bag. Water too, if you're thirsty." Grant offered.

"Look, I was running from zombies, ok? They'll be here any minute, we have to get out of here before..."

Grant cut her off.

"Zombies?" he started "...Yeah, I hadn't really thought about it. They ARE zombies, aren't they. Huh." He said with a laugh. Sarah stared at him for a second in confusion.

"Wh-What have you been calling them?" she asked with a hit of confusion and a few more thoughts about his sanity.

"You know, a combination of 'fucker, ass-wipe, maggot wagon, hey you' and 'rotting douche-bag.' I guess I was more worried about killing them then naming them." he said with a level look.

Suddenly, hoarse moans drifted through the air. Their conversation stopped at once. Grant's irritated look returned.

"How many, and how far apart?" He asked without looking at Sarah. His tone made the words sound more like a statement than a question, his voice suddenly becoming hard as steel.

"Um...about a dozen, and they were spread pretty wide. A few were kinda grouped in the middle..." She suddenly noticed the angry look Grant was giving her. "About five were in the middle group and I don't know how far apart they are, ok?" she practically yelled at him.

"Stay here. Eat one can of the green beans, slowly. I'll be back." Grant said, the kaiser blade resting on his shoulder again as he strode off towards the noise.

"Where are you going?" Sarah was a little embarrassed that she was that scared of being alone again. Grant kept walking.

"You said there were twelve or so zombies over here. I'm going to take care of them. Won't take long." he said without turning around.

Sarah watched him walk away. After he disappeared from sight, she poked through his bag. She saw about twenty cans of food, and fifteen or so bulky brown packages. Inspecting one, she saw large letters; MRE, Meal Ready to Eat. There were three different meals, five of each. She put the package back, and rooted around until she found the can of green beans and the can opener. She briefly wondered why she was listening to the strange man on her choice of food, but was too exhausted to think about it. The bag had small side compartments that held miscellaneous objects, one of which was a fork. Sarah looked around nervously while she ate, thankful for the rest and the food. She noted that as more time passed, the fewer moans she could hear in the distance. By the time fifteen minutes had elapsed, the woods were silent; except for the sounds of crickets and a few birds. After what felt like an eternity, she could hear footsteps approaching.

"Thank you for the food...uh...I'm sorry, I never got your name." Sarah said. She heard no response, only the steady footsteps. She stopped chewing, her head whipping towards the sound. What was once an elderly woman stumbled towards her. One of its arms was outstretched to claw at Sarah, the other looked as though it had been torn away. She quickly put down her can and began to search around for her firearm. She found it quickly and spun around, trying to take aim at the creature. Her hands shook violently. She couldn't get a steady bead on it, and was fighting to control her furious heartbeat and urge to flee. Just as she was squeezing the trigger she heard a wet, metallic noise. The zombie's head and body fell in separate directions, revealing a gore-splattered Grant behind it. Breathing slightly faster than normal, he raised an eyebrow and set his kaiser blade in its traditional resting spot on his shoulder. He stared at Sarah for a moment.

"Fifteen." he said.

"Excuse me?" she replied with confusion.

"There were fourteen damned zombies back there, and this last one makes fifteen. Is counting really that hard? Do you have working eyes? Did the zombies fucking _breed_ while they were following you?" he said with mock anger.

"I said _about_ a dozen you prick!" Sarah replied. She dully realized that she rarely spoke to anyone that way, even if they deserved it. Then again, she had never had a day quite as bad as this.

Grant didn't respond to her outburst, he only picked up the zombie's head by its hair and threw it away like it was a bit of garbage. Its teeth kept clacking together, Grant finding the sound much more irritating than the usual wailing the things made. Grabbing the fallen body's wrist, he easily pulled it a good distance away, out of sight. Grant returned, grabbing a can of pineapple chunks from his bag. While the two were eating, they both looked only at their food. Sarah finished first, and decided to examine the young man in detail.

He was six and a half feet of wiry muscle, close to two hundred pounds worth. Despite that, he seemed thin due to his unusual height. His eyes seemed completely ordinary when they weren't focused on her. She suspected they had an unsettling effect on everyone. She wondered about why he always seemed to stare. She watched him intently for a full minute before he blinked. His dark brown hair was nearly black, and combed neatly to the right. He wasn't wearing a shirt, only a leather jacket that was stained with bits of gore. His pale skin was covered in pink scars, some of which were a foot long. His hands and knuckles were more of the same. She thought back to how he flipped back and forth between emotionless and businesslike to friendly and talkative.

"_I bet he had to learn to act friendly around people. That would point to some kind of high-functioning Autism. Then again, he has no trouble looking me in the eye or communicating so that doesn't fit."_ she thought. A chill ran down her spine at the second possibility. That the man standing in front of her could be a sociopath. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. The coldness, the lack of fear, his superficial charm when there was no immediate danger. She decided that she was over-thinking it, as new psychology students tend to do. Her pondering was interrupted by Grant clearing his throat.

"So Miss, what's your name?" He asked.

"I-it's Sarah." she said. As she said it, the man gave her an appraising look.

"Sarah, I'm Grant. Pleasure to meet you. Forgive me if this is a strange question to ask someone I just met, but are you any good with that gun?"he asked, his tone conversational. She thought for a moment.

"Well, kind of. Dad used to take me to the shooting range when I was younger. I'd be a decent shot if I could get my fear under control, you know?" she said with a laugh. Grant's blank look told her that no, he did not know.

"Well, I don't have a gun and even if I did, I am a terrible shot. So I was thinking, if you want, you and I could stick together for a while. I need to head into town, and I've been hearing gunshots as I've gotten closer. If some bastard starts shooting at me while I'm going about my business, I'd like someone who could take them down." he said. "Think you're up for it?"

Sarah considered her options. Traveling alone and with no plan or supplies was scary, but staying with a possible psycho seemed worse. But even if he turned out to be a complete loon, it was nice to have somebody that could keep a cool head at the idea of undead cannibals. Or really anybody at all. She reminded herself that he had done nothing to hurt her so far, and that he would have let her blow his brains out to prove a point. As bad as he seemed, Grant was better than nothing. She gave him another skeptical look before replying.

"I think so." she said with a faint smile. Grant smiled back. The pair stood up in unison and grabbed their weapons. Grant wore an expression that sent a chill up Sarah's spine.

"Well, let's go kick some ass."


	5. Chapter 5: BitterSweet

Sarah looked at Grant while they walked. He stared straight ahead with his sly grin that never seemed to leave his face. His heavy combat boots caused his footsteps to be dangerously loud, but if he noticed he didn't seem to care. He walked with confidence, with the air of a man that could handle anything life could throw at him.

Sarah was certain that confidence would get him killed.

She had calmed down considerably, due to having her hunger quelled and gaining some company. Said company was hardly talkative or friendly, but it beat traveling alone as the sun began to set. She didn't know why he was intent on getting into town, and was almost afraid to ask. She doubted that Grant had friends in town that he planned to save, but she couldn't think of another reason he would brave the hell that Beebe had become. He seemed capable, formidable even, but she couldn't see him lasting more than an hour in the now deadly community. But, she thought, maybe his skills could be of some use to her before he did something foolish.

"Grant? Do you mind if I ask you a favor? It...it's very important, actually."

He stopped and turned toward her. Several seconds passed in silence, with him quietly looking at the girl. It seemed like he couldn't understand what she had just said.

"What kind of favor?" he asked with no inflection or affect.

"I had to leave someone in a truck just ahead. He got hurt and I couldn't carry him. Our truck was hit by a car and I had to leave him there. Those zombies were following me because I was leading them away from..." Grant interrupted her.

"Alright." He said quickly.

"...Just like that? You'll help?" she asked, more than a little surprised at his apparent willingness to aid her. She was expecting his chilling laugh, or for him to disregard her completely.

"You need help, and I'm capable of giving it." he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He turned back and continued walking without giving it another word. Sarah was taken aback once again.

"Thank you _so _much, Mark is a good friend of mine." Grant stopped. He turned his head, and Sarah saw raw anger in his face. His furrowed brow and deep frown amplified his burning glare.

"I _hate_ it when people thank me. If they say 'thanks', they expect me to say 'you're welcome'. If you _weren't _welcome, then I wouldn't be fucking helping you, would I? Saying thanks doesn't make _sense._" Grant began walking forward at a brisk pace, his long stride forcing Sarah to jog to keep up with him. Sarah had no idea what to think of him now. In a matter of seconds he readily agreed to walk into potential danger for her, then spun around and accosted her for thanking him. She was beginning to think that he wasn't insane, just incredibly eccentric.

"_That doesn't mean he's any less dangerous." _she thought to herself, still wary of her large companion.

Eventually, Grant slowed his frenzied pace. Grant had given her his backpack to carry while he toted the much heavier duffel bag. She didn't mind, the backpack only weighing a little more than the one she carried to school.

Finally, the road came into view. They had emerged from the woods several dozen feet away from the scene of the accident. They couldn't immediately see any undead, but one could be heard moaning nearby. As they approached the wrecked truck, the moaning grew louder. Grant dropped his bag, then hefted his weapon. Walking to the side of the ruined vehicle, he could see what used to be Daryl trying to crawl through the narrow back window of the truck. He was swiping uselessly at Mark who was still sprawled across the truck's seats. Sarah's breath caught in her throat as she saw Daryl's broken body clawing at her only living friend in the world.

Anger propelled her past Grant, putting three feet from the zombie. She pointed her pistol at Daryl's face.

"You dirty son of a bitch, try getting a meal that can fight back."

The living corpse pulled its head from the window and looked at Sarah. As soon as it turned its head towards her, she took careful aim. Her hands were steady this time. Daryl opened his mouth to release a hungry cry. A large hollow-point bullet obliterated it's front teeth and blew its liquified brain stem through the back of its skull. The shot echoed through the dense woods, the loud noise followed by an eerie silence. Grant nudged Sarah.

"Hot damn, this whole time I had a tiny female Rambo following me around." Sarah shot him a baleful look before opening the truck door. Mark's eyes were open and glazed over. He weakly lifted his head and spoke in a broken voice.

"S...Sarah? What...happened? I feel..." He stopped, turned his head and puked onto the pavement, splashing Sarah's shoes. She was too worried about Mark to care. Her voice shook as she spoke to her friend.

"Mark, there was an accident and you're hurt. Just stay still for a second." She looked at her friend. His hair was matted with dry blood, and he wasn't moving his left arm. She didn't know how badly he was hurt. She didn't have any experience with _physical_ wounds. Grant pulled a switchblade and pushed by Sarah.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"We need to get that sleeve off of him. It's obvious it's hurt somehow, and I need to get a look at it. He has a concussion, with the possible bonus of a fractured arm and whiplash. Cover me while I work" His tone was low and soothing, and he gave Sarah a soft look. She hesitated for a second before pulling away. She knew he was adjusting his tone and words to manipulate her. He lacked the capacity to really care about Mark's injuries. Nevertheless, she took a position at the edge of the highway. She stood with her pistol in hand, occasionally shooting glances at the two when she wasn't scanning the trees for zombies.

Grant examined the now exposed arm. Deep green and purple bruises covered the side that had slammed into the door. Gingerly, his large hands probed the un-bruised side of the limb, checking for breaks. He then carefully examined Mark's head wound, his face never changing from his usual slight grin. He tapped Sarah on the shoulder.

"Good news and bad news. Bad news is he _does_ have a concussion, and almost definitely has a fractured arm. He's got some neck swelling. Usually means whiplash. Good news is, I have aspirin for the pain and ibuprofen for the swelling. He's going to need bed-rest for the head trauma and that fracture won't heal any time soon. We need to find a place to hole up until he can move again. It's getting too dark for my tastes anyway."

Sarah nodded in agreement, looking at the lengthening shadows of the trees. She turned to Grant with a raised eyebrow.

"Any bright ideas big man?" she asked, dripping with sarcasm.

Grant grinned a little wider than usual.

"Only one. I see a sixteen-wheeler down the road. High doors and plenty of room for us until the sun comes up. We get surrounded, I'll clear a path. That happens though, I don't think I can carry him _and _save our asses."

Sarah was quiet for a moment. She had lost nearly everyone she cared about in the last twenty-four hours, and she wasn't going to lose Mark without a fight.

"If we get surrounded, you can clear out of there. You've already put yourself in danger for me once, and I know I couldn't help Mark by myself. I feel like I already owe you too much. I don't expect you to die for us on top of everything else." Grant's smile slowly faded. For a moment, he looked uncomfortable before he spoke.

"No can do little lady. You promised to cover me with that hand cannon of yours. No matter how many walking rot-boxes we wake up to find, I promise all three of us are getting to town." He looked away as he spoke, his discomfort growing every second. Sarah was at a loss for words. She clicked the safety on her .45 and holstered it. She stepped up to Grant, forcing him to look at her. His eyes weren't cold anymore, they had lost their paralyzing intensity. He looked like an actual person now, rather than an emotionless machine. All this time, the emotionless Grant that she had seen was just his mental armor to deal with the undead terror. Sarah was more than a full foot shorter than Grant, not even reaching his collar bone. She pulled him down and lightly kissed him.

"Thank you." she whispered.

Grant wore a look of confused shock. He gently pushed her away, not looking away from her. He closed his eyes for several seconds. He looked as though he was concentrating, centering himself. Finally, he opened his eyes again. They had regained their edge, and his smirk was back. He mechanically turned around and slowly pulled Mark from the truck. The flannel-clad man stood on shaky legs, his uninjured arm slung around Grant's broad shoulders. They walked for several feet before Grant stopped.

"Please grab my bag and my blade." he said with his usual aloof tone.

Sarah only nodded and collected his things. The three of them walked to the abandoned big rig in silence. Once there, Grant set Mark down and climbed inside the tuck with his combat knife drawn. After a minute, he gestured that it was safe. Sarah climbed inside first, and settled into the passenger seat. Grant laid Mark on the bunk in the back of the semi, then gently closed the door. He sat heavily on the driver's seat. He avoided looking at Sarah, simply leaning the seat back and closing his eyes.

"You may want to get those tablets and some water out of the backpack. Try to get him to take a couple of each if you can."

Sarah looked at him for a moment before going to the back and helping Mark take the pills. He asked her what had happened again, not aware that they were no longer in his truck. She fought back tears as she explained again that he was hurt and helped him take the medicine. When Mark finally fell asleep, she laid across the passenger seat, resting her head on Grant's thigh. He tensed for a moment before relaxing again, but didn't object. Once it had grown too dark to see, Grant began shifting in his seat. Sarah laid still, not knowing what he was going to do. A second later, his leather jacket fell on top of her as a blanket. She smiled to herself and passed into sleep. Grant laid awake most of the night, arms crossed, staring out the window.

He was reliving some dark memories.


End file.
